


aftershocks

by mikkal



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bombs, Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, a bit of a twist on a bombing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 23:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: “Oh, shit.”Noct leans over his shoulder to look. There’s a pause then—“Oh, shit.”The bag next to his looks innocent enough, except in the black expanse of it’s maw, sits a device steadily blinking red. A countdown. Fifty-three seconds.A bomb.





	aftershocks

Prompto nudges the cold bottle of soda against Noctis’ cheek. He flinches, looking up at him with startled eyes, but he takes the offered drink immediately, curling over to press his forehead to it.

            “Headache again?” Prompto asks as he climbs onto the stone wall enclosing the large tree in the middle of the plaza. He rests his feet on the bench he’s supposed to actually sit on, allowing Noct lean most of his weight on him, temple against knee, shoulder pressing into calf.

            Noct nods, face pale, eyes squinting, lips pulled thin. He takes the straw Prompto’s booping his nose with, pops it in his drink, and takes a sip, slumping even more against Prompto. The blonde sips his own drink as he drags a hand through Noct’s hair, not really caring about the hustle and bustle of Insomnia around them. There’s been worse pictures of them in the tabloids.

            Iggy and Gladio are here somewhere, so Prompto’s not too worried about Noctis letting his guard down. He’s been getting some Crownsguard training in himself lately, so if push comes to shove he’s pretty sure he has enough learned material rammed into his brain to be useful. So, he lets Noctis close his eyes without much worry about him not being aware and focuses on the worry that he has for his friend’s physical self.

            “You did magic training yesterday, right?” Noctis nods against his knee, sipping his lemon-lime soda slowly. “Warping?” Another nod. “You could’ve canceled, dude. I get it.” This time he shakes his head. Prompto sighs and keeps carding fingers through his friend’s hair. “You’re stubborn.” He gets the tip of a finger poked sharply in the crease of his knee. He jerks, laughing, but doesn’t move from Noctis’s grip.

            They sit in comfortable silence. Noctis half-way to dreamland, Prompto people watching. He spots Ignis and Gladio at a store front, talking about something displayed in the window. He can tell because Gladio’s gesturing at it wildly, pointing back at Noctis and Prompto at the same time. Even though they’re both angled to keep an eye on the prince, when Gladio points they both turn fully in their direction. Prompto waves idly at them. Ignis raises a hand in response, still talking to Gladio. Some Crownsguard dot the plaza in plainclothes, the only way Prompto can tell is from recognizing them from trips to the Citadel and seeing them in their uniforms.

            He doesn’t always feel safe when he goes out with Noctis. Arcades are fine, enclosed and one Crownsguard if Gladio or Ignis are busy. School’s fine. Diners are fine. Movie theaters are a little worse. Malls are a nightmare. Plaza’s are hell. It’s not that he’s worried about being attacked—okay, yeah, he’s worried about an attack, but not on _him_. It doesn’t escape his notice that in the two years Noctis has been his friend, that Noctis is so _relaxed_ around him. Constantly. Wherever they are. And that put a weight Prompto never expected on his shoulders. He doesn’t always feel safe because he’s always worried this will be the day Noctis’ trust in his friend is going to get him hurt or, worse, killed, because Prompto can’t protect him.

            That thought has him accidently gripping Noct’s hair tight between his fingers. Noct grumbles, shifting in annoyance. Prompto quickly relaxes his grip, soothes a hand through the abused spot, and takes a deep, calming breath. No. There’s Ignis and Gladio and full-fledged Crownsguard, it’ll be okay. He doesn’t have to worry.

            “How ‘bout we head to your apartment?” Prompto suggests. They were supposed to go to the arcade originally, but with Noctis’ headache and him mumbling about Ignis wanting to shop, here they are. But Ignis looks like he’s almost done, what with them walking this way, and Noctis looks uncomfortably close to a full-blown migraine.

            Noct groans dramatically, sagging heavier against Prompto before picking himself back up. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a thumb into the soft part of his temple. Like _that’s_ going to do anything. “Probably a good idea.”

            He hates it when Noct is like this. Prompto’s 98% sure he’s seen every single side of Noct, and this one is on his list of Top Five Least Liked. He’ll take moody Noctis (different than sullen Noctis, the origins are vastly different) over in pain and withdrawn Noctis any day.

            Prompto reaches down for his bag, only to have his fingers brush against something a little more canvas-like than his leather patchworked bookbag. He glances down, his eyes widen.

            “Oh, shit.”

            Noct leans over his shoulder to look. There’s a pause then—“Oh, _shit_.”

            The bag next to his looks innocent enough, except in the black expanse of it’s maw, sits a device steadily blinking red. A countdown. Fifty-three seconds.

            A bomb.

            Later, Prompto will be a little embarrassed to admit that he panicked. Now, though, he’s perfectly okay with panicking. He launches himself back blindly, snagging the collar of Noct’s shirt to yank him in the same direction. Noctis yelps as he goes flying but doesn’t fight it.

            Ignis and Gladio start running instantly. The closest Crownsguard takes notice and steps forward. They’re all just a little too slow. A woman, attention drawn by Prompto’s rapid movement, glances over, then down. She screams, loud and long, one word to guarantee a mad stampede:

            _“Bomb!_

            Forty-two seconds.

            Everything is a blur of color and sound. Noct at his side. People running and screaming. Next thing he’s solidly aware of is Ignis and Gladio. Gladio grabs Noct. Ignis puts his hand on the small of Prompto’s back and forcibly turns him away. Prompto almost struggles, tries to turn back for his bookbag. His camera’s in there. And his phone. And his running shoes. And maybe some homework? That one he’s not sure about. Either way, it’s stuff he can’t afford to lose.

            “Bomb squad,” he hears someone say, the rest lost in the panic. He glances up to see Crownsguard leading the way out of the plaza. They’re barely ten feet away from the bomb now. Faster. They should move faster.

            “Anyone here trained?” Ignis asks tersely.

            “No, sir.”

            Thirty-one seconds.

            The plaza is still full of people. Some on the ground from being knocked down. Others at the back of the pack. There’s one woman curled on the ground, protecting something against her stomach. A small, cubby hand peeks out between her arms. His stomach drops when he realizes it belongs to a toddler. A _child_. Noct, next to him, makes a noise of despair. Prompto glances over to see his face paler than ever, his eyes two blazing stars as they catch sight of the mother and child.

            Twenty seconds.

            “It’s gonna go off,” Gladio mutters. Louder, he says, “Tell the other ‘guards to get everyone else out. We’ve got the prince.”

            Except. Except, when the Crownsguard nods and dashes off, speaking rapidly into his comm. unit. When Gladio goes to tug Noct into a faster pace, his hand wraps around thin air.

            The prince is gone. Throwing himself forward. Running off _towards the bomb_.

            Prompto shouts, tries to lunge after him. Ignis grabs his shoulder, yanks him back until he’s stumbling behind the other man. And then the two of them, Gladio and Ignis, are running, running as fast as they can. The bomb counts downs. Noctis gets closer. The woman is still there, curled protectively over her child.

            Eleven seconds.

            Noct’s fingers brush the strap of the bag—

            Ten seconds.

            His fingers curl around it tightly—

            Nine.

            He lifts it up—

            Eight.

            Fumbles with his other hand—

            Seven.

            Cradles it with both hands—

            Six.

            With a deep look of concentration—

            Five.

            Ignis and Gladio are _so close_ —

            Four.

            Prompto’s frozen in fear—

            Three.

            Noct takes a deep breath—

            Two.

            And throws the bag as hard as he can into the sky—

            One.

            It disappears in a burst of blue soul crystals.

The same ones that appear whenever he and his father summon weapons from the armory. One day Ignis and Gladio are supposed to be able to as well.  Noct says it’ll be later, but Prompto will get the same privilege.

            Ignis keeps going, practically crashes into his prince, grips Noct’s shoulders so tightly his knuckles pale. “ _What on Eos were you thinking_?” Ignis all but shouts. It’d be easier if he just straight up shouted. Somehow, he’s less scary that way. Prompto steadies himself and then picks his way closer, heart in his throat and beating way too fast.

            Noctis scowls at him, eyes drifting towards the woman and her kid as they stumble to their feet and are ushered away by a Crownsguard. Sirens are wailing in the background, speeding closer. “I was thinking I had a way to help them,” he says quietly, eyes flickering back to Ignis. “And I was going to do it.”

            “Noct,” Ignis sighs, shoulders losing some of their tension. “You could’ve been killed.”

            “It’s not your job,” Gladio says gruffly. It’s only by the constant presence and almost two years of knowing him that Prompto sees the gruffness for what it really is: bone-rattling fear. They came _so close._

            Noct’s glare is scathing. “If not mine, then _who was_ —.” His eyes widen. He chokes, curling over with a strangled gasp. Ignis still has his hands on his shoulders, he goes down with him when Noct’s knees buckle.

            Prompto makes it over in time to see Noct double over, his back arching, fingers digging into Ignis’ arms. He’s wearing short sleeves today, a black graphic tee with a dark grey Assassin’s Creed logo on it. The neckline is low enough, the sleeves short enough, that Prompto can see a shock of purple spiderweb across the back of his neck, snaking on his arms from under the hem of his sleeves.

            The cracks in his skin fade to silver, then fade completely, leaving unblemished skin behind. Noctis’ breaths are short and haggard. He can’t seem to uncurl from his position, his arms shake, his chest heaves.

            “W-What—?” he manages to force out in a confused, lost voice before he jerks like he’s been punched. He presses his face against Ignis’ thigh as a whine builds in the back of his throat. It builds and builds until it reaches fever-pitch. A flash of purple cracks dance along his arms and neck again, taking longer to fade to silver. Taking even longer to fade completely.

            “What the hell?” Gladio says.

            “Call His Majesty,” Ignis snaps out. He’s pale. A muscle in his jaw twitches when he clenches his teeth for a moment. “Prompto, call emergency services. Tell them it’s the prince.”

            He fumbles for his phone. Dials the number with shaking fingers as Ignis calls Noct’s name softly. The remaining Crownsguard form a protective circle around them. Their captain kneels next to Noctis and Ignis, looking uncertain and out of his depth.

            The switchboard picks up on the other line just as Noctis starts _screaming_ , those purple cracks crawling up neck, down his arms. Before, they were a camera flash in a moment. Now the creep ever-so-slowly. Before, they only peeked from underneath his shirt. Now they reach up to his hairline and half-way to his elbows.

            Noctis screams and _screams_ , clutching Ignis so tight it must hurt.  

            Blood rushes in Prompto’s ears. He can barely hear the woman on the other side asking him questions. He fumbles out the number he’d been given when Noct and him became actual friends instead of just tentative acquaintances. It’s supposed to tell emergency services that whenever he calls about the prince it’s legitimate and not a prank call.  

            “Something’s wrong with the king,” he catches Gladio saying quietly to Ignis. Noct lays there, gasping short, little breaths, his whole-body trembling. He refuses to let go of Ignis. “I got my dad instead. His Majesty collapsed at a meeting just minutes ago. He’s not in pain, but he seems out of it.”

            “ _No_ ,” Noctis moans out, drawing their attention. His eyes are fever bright as he looks up at Ignis through his fringe. “No, dad—.” He breaks off with a choked cry.

            Prompto’s phone slips through his fingers, clattering to the ground. Noct doesn’t even bother to try holding in the scream this time. It’s blood-curdling. Cold sweat breaks out on Prompto’s forehead just listening to it.

            The cracks seem brighter this time. They reach his jaw and his wrists this time. From where his shirt rides up, the cracks flash down his spine. Instead of fading to silver, they linger at purple then fade to blue. But they don’t disappear. Not for a long while.

            Noctis writhes in pain on the ground, whimpering incessantly. His skin is clear, for now.

            The sirens are finally on top of them. Paramedics push their way through the nosey crowd, a off-silver Lucian Crest on their shoulders, signaling they were Citadel staff instead of from the more public hospitals.

            They usher Gladio and Ignis out of the way and load Noctis up with practiced ease. As soon as they get the prince onto his back, he cries out, arching up as the cracks come back with a vengeance. They cover his cheeks and the back of his hands, wrapping around his wrists. Prompto resists the urge to cover his ears like a child as Noct’s screams reach a keening wail.

            The paramedics bark orders to each other, fluttering around Noct, debating this and that. The medical terms go right over his head, but he catches ‘restraints’ and ‘sedation’ being flung around. Noct thrashes on the gurney, like he’s trying to escape the pain.

            Gladio shoves Ignis forward with a rough ‘ _go_.’ Ignis does as ordered, climbing into the back of the ambulance. The doors snap shut, the siren pops on, and the tires squeal as the ambulance takes off, leaving them behind. In the silence Gladio scoops up Prompto’s phone and hands it to him without looking. He takes it with a shaking hand, his eyes stinging.

            The screen is splintered. Like a branch of lightning.

\-------

Regis is used to meetings. Having done them for the past twenty or so years, six days a week, at least seven hours a day, he knows which meeting subjects he will actively enjoy and which ones he’ll struggle to focus on.

The refugee and immigration crisis, he doesn’t enjoy but he does pay more attention to those. Discussion about the Wall, less so considering he’s the focal point of the magic twenty-four/seven. He gets enough of it during his off hours, he doesn’t need unknowledgeable councilmen to dictate his life about it.

Any discussion about Noctis he tries to stop before they get too far. He understands and doesn’t understand at the same time their negative out look on his son, so he tries to nip those back and forth discussions in the bud. He’s unbearably proud of Noctis no matter what he does, but especially so in this last year as Noctis stepped up to the expectations placed on his young shoulders. Regis would love to give him a few more years without those burdens, but even he can’t stop Noctis once he gets something on his mind.

He’s in one of those meetings concerning their immigration laws when the alarm of a bomb in the Dryas Plaza. They would’ve gotten the alert in the first place, being that it’s a bomb and also that it’s so close to the Citadel. But that’s not what makes his heart leap to his throat or himself leap from his seat.

Noctis is there.

He knows because Ignis told him their plans. He also knows because Noctis has this strange habit of sending him Snapchats through out the day, even when he’s not suppose to. He only has the app because of his son. It makes him feel closer to Noctis and, not to mention, gives him a chance to whip out all those dad jokes he hardly gets the chance to say.

The last snapchat he received was a video of Ignis and Gladio animatedly arguing over something. Both waving their hands widely, their expressions exaggerated annoyance with one another. Behind them had been the sign of a specialty store only found in the Dryas Plaza, and Insomnia’s big enough that the GPS locator is accurate enough to pinpoint them there specifically instead of a generalized Insomnia.

“What’s happening?” Regis demands when no information comes through after the first alert. He’s already striding towards the door with a purpose, everyone except Clarus struggling to keep up.

Clarus’ at his side, phone out, scrolling through the alerts. “Police and paramedics are on their way, so is a bomb squad. It hasn’t gone off yet, but someone noticed and it’s causing a panic. Noctis is fine.”

Regis sighs heavily in relief. Oh, thank Bahamut. Then he gets serious. There are still people in the plaza with a bomb. The Dryas Plaza is not known for high customer traffic during the week, especially in the summer when people go to the beaches towards the northeast and the fields to the south that also houses some smaller, colder beaches. But even one soul caught in an obvious terrorist attack is one too many.

It hits him then. A shock of lightning down his spine. He chokes out something strangled. The world sways. He stumbles, catching himself on the doorframe, pressing a hand against his temple as his head throbs.

“Regis!” Clarus places a steady hand on the king’s shoulder. Regis sways into him, Clarus grabs him by both shoulders now, keeping him from sliding to the ground in a heap. “What’s wrong?”

His head throbs in time with his heart. “I don’t—.” The words are lost in a garble, his lips suddenly numb. His knees buckle despite their best efforts. The pain is gone, but the thoughts in his head jump around. It’s hard to pin them down. “Clarus…”

The sound of his phone is piercing. Regis groans as Clarus fumbles for it.

“It’s Gladio,” Clarus whispers before answering quickly. Whatever he says is lost to the static growing, in Regis’ head, along his nerves, on the tip of his tongue. It comes in bursts and stops.

_Noctis_. The name of his son comes to him like a wave, drowning and all consuming. He latches onto the thought with single-mindedness. This has to do with Noctis, it makes him realizes. Something’s wrong with his son.

—

The doctors won’t let them into the room. That doesn’t keep them from hearing Noctis scream.

            Gladio squeezes his eyes shut, unable to do anything but hear the pain in Noct’s voice and the way his screams break and crackle. If he keeps this up, he won’t have a voice to scream with sooner than later. Ignis’ pressed himself against the wall closest to the door, expression pinched. Prompto is the only one that sits, slumped in a chair with his hands over his face.

            They’ve been there for only a few minutes before King Regis limps in. He walks with a purpose ruined by the pain and confusion lining his face and the severe way he walks. His once hazel eyes glint purple with power. Gladio swallows thickly, standing straight as his father follows their king into the corridor.

            Regis spares them only a glance before he sweeps into the room housing his son, leaving the door open in silent invitation. The screaming cuts off abruptly. Gladio glances at Ignis and Prompto before following his king and his father, the two of them close behind.

            Noctis lays curled on his side, looking terribly small in the uncomfortably pale hospital bed. Other than something keeping track of his heart rate and oxygen levels, there’s nothing else hooked up to him. Regis bends over him, a careful hand pressed against his son’s forehead. Noct reaches out with a shaking hand and wraps his fingers around his father’s wrist in a tight grip. If Regis’ eyes are glinting purple, Noct’s _burn._

            They removed his shirt at one point, exposing the stain of scar on his back from when he was eight and the splash of discolored lightning cracking through his skin. His screaming stopped seconds ago, but the purple shows no signs of fading. Regis reaches over, carefully brushes the pads of his fingers against Noct’s shoulder blades. Noctis’ breath hitches once, twice, then the lightning glows brighter, crawls further along his skin.

            He yanks on his dad’s arm, pulling him closer to curl around his hand like it would protect him. He presses his forehead against the king’s wrist and cries openly, trying so hard not to scream. The strain shows in the tensing of his muscles, the way his tendons stand stark on his paling skin. Regis brushes the tears away the best he can.

            “What’s wrong with my son?” he demands to the doctor that’s been hovering in the corner, discussing something with a nurse.

            The doctor shakes her head, lips pressed in a thin line. “I don’t know,” she admits reluctantly.

            “What happened?” Clarus asks. Gladio nearly jumps, so caught up in Noct’s pain he forgot his dad was there too. “The reports are conflicting.”

            “A bomb,” Prompto says first. He hesitates when all attention turns to him, but once glance at his friend wrapped in agony spurs him on. “It was seconds from going off and the plaza wasn’t cleared yet. Noct threw it in the armory.”

            Clarus chokes. “He…threw it into the armory?” he asks in disbelief. “Is that even possible?” Noct sobs in answer.

            Regis’ frown sharpens, his browns furrow. With he free hand, he reaches to the air, curls it into a fist. Blue crystals pop and glimmer around him before they flash a blinding red and his hand jerks like he’s been shocked.

            “He’s locked me out,” he says, half-awed. He looks down at the trembling Noctis, eyes wide.

            “He can do that?” Ignis asks, voice hoarse.

            Regis shakes his head, shrugging. “We each have our own little pockets in the ether that the Crystal gives us. Mine is a little more…expansive. I have access to his, but he generally doesn’t have access to mine.” He rubs his hand over his face. “It’s not a pocket of frozen time. It just moves differently.” He sighs heavily. “The bomb is exploding in there. He locked me out, so I wouldn’t feel it anymore.” The implications of that are a punch in the gut.

            Noctis chokes on air, but then heaves. Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, turning the sheets into a horror movie. His feet dig into the bed as he struggles to breathe. He coughs, crimson drops splattering on his dad’s bare hands, but his chest moves easier. His eyes flash an unnatural, then red—deep, dark red, the color of the blood staining his lips. Purple cracks through it like a stain glass when the lightning shatters his skin. And it really is a shattering, that bomb is breaking Noctis in a way that’s too thorough, too intimate for a magic user.

            “Idiot,” Gladio grits out between his clenched teeth, his hands balled into fists at his side. Ignis places a comforting hand on his bicep. “When’s it gonna stop?”

            The king shrugs, it looks like it pains him to do so. “It’s already gone far beyond the time frame for an explosion. I can’t even begin to guess.” He glances over at the doctor. “Could we give him painkillers, to ease the way?”

            She tucks a lock of her dreads behind her ear. “We’ll have to manage it carefully,” she says slowly, “so, it doesn’t backfire on his system. But I don’t see why not.”

            Regis smooths his hand over Noct’s forehead into his hair. “It’ll be all right,” he murmurs, leaning low to press his lips to his son’s temple. Gladio looks away to give them some privacy. “It’ll be over soon,” he lies, because he doesn’t know how much longer this will last. “Be strong.”

—

It lasts through the night.

            A very slow, torturous night. The painkillers can only do so much for Noctis, in the end. It takes the edge off, but he’s still left alternating between curling up in a tight, tense ball or writhing in pain, tangling the sheets around his ankles.

            The lightning on his skin seems branded there now, bright and glaring. It pulsates with his heartbeat, shimmering blue and silver among the bright purple. His eyes dull back to an ominous purple, but they remain half-lidded and distant whenever he’s aware enough to open them.

            He never gets beyond opening them, he can’t focus on anything. His lips part, but he never says anything, only whimpers and gasps, sometimes the painkillers run out and he’ll start to scream cracking, hoarse noises. Blood scratches up from his throat, staining his chin. He won’t have a voice after this.

            Ignis won’t leave. It’s nearly dawn and he hasn’t left. He sits in the corner of the room, tablet in hand and pretending to work on it. Gladio is on the floor, leaning against the chair Prompto’s slumped in. The blonde has his legs swung over Gladio’s shoulder, and for once the Shield isn’t giving him shit for it. Regis continues to sit at his son’s side, phone in hand as it beeps with updates. They haven’t caught anyone involved in the bombing, but they’ve narrowed the culprits down to the terrorist organization Lucis Liberation Army, a thorn in their sides for the last decade or so.

            Noctis lets out a rasping gasp, making Ignis look up. He flipped over to his other side sometime early into the night, baring his back to his father and putting him at the perfect eyeline for Ignis. His eyes glow otherworldly in the dim light of the hospital room, his face shines with sweat. His gaze is right over Ignis’ shoulder, glazed and distant as usual, but then slides ever-so-slightly to the left, and he’s making direct eye contact with Ignis.

            “Noct?” he asks quietly. There’s a shuffle of everyone else drawing to attention. Noct blinks slowly at him, doesn’t look away. Ignis puts his tablet down. “Can you hear me?”

            His chin dips the tiniest bit. “’nis,” he whispers, eyebrows furrowing. His tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. “Ignis,” he tries again. He follows Ignis’ approach, head tilting up to keep him in sight. “Wha…What ‘appened?

            Ignis brushes the tips of his fingers against Noct’s cheek, glances up at the king then back at his prince. “What do you remember?” Gladio ducks out to find a nurse or a doctor.

            Noct squints away from him. “A bomb?” he ventures cautiously. He blinks. “Everyone ‘kay?”

            He nods, pressing his fingers lightly into Noct’s skin. The muscles of his jaw twitch at the pressure, he backs off. “Everyone but you.”

            “Dad?”

            “Right here,” Regis says, standing and curling over his son, casting a comforting shadow. Noctis twists half onto his back, stays like that even thought he’ll regret it later. “You saved a lot of people,” he tells him. “But please, _never_ do something like that again.” He cards his fingers through his son’s sweat soaked hair.

            Noct grins something small and tired. “’m not gonna do that,” he slurs out.

Regis sighs, hanging his head. “Never expected anything less,” he says fondly, somewhat sad.

**Author's Note:**

> ive really gotta stop ending fics the same way???


End file.
